


Too Sad for Pants

by Libbyfay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse Stress, Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dancing, Drinking, Family Quality Time, Fluff and Humor, Frivolous Miracles, Gender-questioning Warlock, Genderfluid Character, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Heteronormative Tad Dowling, Heteronormativity, Light Angst, Multi, Rainbow Unicorns, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Silly, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Temper Tantrums, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds/Libbyfay
Summary: “Hey, you wanna go out in the garden and see Brother Francis?”Warlock peeked above his arms, and Crowley held up the trousers, temptingly.  On sudden impulse, Warlock kicked at his Nanny, catching the offending clothing around one leg and flailing till the trousers were whipped from her hands.“Impressive,” Crowley admitted.“Too sad!”  The boy said, despairingly.“You’re too sad?  Too sad for what, Hellspawn?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/gifts).



> The idea for this fic was a post on the Ineffable Husbands Fanfiction Readers and Writers FaceBook group. Basically, there were a bunch of adorable kids-say-the-darndest-things type quotes, and we agreed that we could picture Crowley saying most of them, at one time or another. My favorite was “Too sad for pants”, which, if you’re American like me, means trousers, jeans or boy-clothes. Brits may read this as a reference to underwear. That’ll be ok. Just go with it.

Miss Astoreth was waiting it out. 

Having grown accustomed to the sounds of souls in eternal torment, the wailing of a six-year-old did little to discompose her. She sat in the chair by the bed, a pair of tiny trousers laying across her lap, as Warlock sobbed loudly into his pillow.

When he stilled for just a moment, to draw a shaky breath, she spoke encouragingly. “Just think of all the mischief you can get into with your father.” They both paused and seemed to be considering this. “And whether he enjoys mischief or not,” she added “you can always have fun at his expense.”

The child redoubled his angry bawling, and Crowley patted his shoulder. “There, now. You have to go walk among the people at some point, Hellspawn… Survey the ignorant, competitive masses that you’re meant to rule.”

Warlock turned his splotchy red face to the side, to regard his Nanny with one eye. “What about you?” He demanded.

“You know that I have the day off.” She replied in reasonable tones.

“From me!” He accused.

“And you get to spend the day with your father.” 

Warlock shook his head, face smooshed into his pillow, giving every impression of trying to smother himself. At least he was a bit quieter, now.

“I know that you’re very angry and sad that I’m leaving for the day. But this is a challenge that young Adversaries must-“

At that moment, Tad Dowling burst into his son’s room. He quickly took in the scene and realized he didn’t like what he saw. “Oh, for God’s sake!” Tad exclaimed, “He’s not even _dressed_ yet!”

Crowley kept her hand on Warlock’s back. “We’re getting there.” She assured him.

“I can’t believe this!” At the sound of his father’s raised voice, the boy curled into a ball. “We’ll miss the pre-game!”

The demon looked pointedly from the boy to his father and back. “It would appear young Warlock is less than interested in the ‘pre-game’.”

“Jack’s got kids! A whole… playset, video games-” Tad realized, belatedly, that he was scrambling to justify himself to the hired help, so he changed tactics. “Ok. Well, thank you, Miss Astoreth. That’ll be all. I’ve got it from here.” 

Crowley’s dark lenses didn’t fully obscure her eat-shit-and die-stare, and she stood up very slowly. Tad swallowed and resisted the urge to back-up a step. She offered up the boy’s trousers, and Tad snatched them out of her hand. 

Looking back toward the bed with regret, she said, “Have fun playing video games, dear. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She swayed out of the room, passing awkwardly close to her employer as both of them refused to make way for the other. 

“Alright son,” she could hear the ambassador say as she headed down the hallway. “Enough’s enough. Time to put on your big-boy pants. Quit your-“

An inexplicable change in air pressure blew the bedroom door closed behind her with a bang. 

Crowley was slowly descending the staircase when the house was once again filled with the fire-alarm sounds of Warlock voicing his displeasure. Her smile was faint as she methodically packed her bag with a few things from the front closet. 

“Nooooo!” Warlock shouted. There was stillness again for the length of time it took to pull on her blazer. Then, Warlock flew down the stairs, his father in pursuit. The boy had barreled past his Nanny and slammed the door to the dining room before his father had made it half-way down.

Crowley continued fixing her hair in the hall mirror and, pointedly, did not involve herself.

“That kid is a menace!” said a voice over her shoulder. 

“Thank you.” She replied, simply.

“If I try to get him dressed, I’m gonna end up covered in bruises.”

“Well, it’s like you always say, Tad.” She rolled a final curl between her fingers and turned toward him. “Boys will be boys.” 

Crowley’s gaze was level, and Tad’s face turned even redder knowing that he was being either challenged or mocked. Unfortunately, her words contained nothing he could object to. “Yeah, but you’re raising him to be a real cry-baby, aren’t you?”

“Well. It’s nothing his big powerful papa shouldn’t be able to fix.” She poked her employer rather flirtatiously in the chest as she headed toward the kitchen. 

Really, she _had_ been about to leave, but now, she thought better of it. Perhaps if she packed some sandwiches, it would give her time to see how the drama would resolve.

She took liberties in the family kitchen, packing two sandwiches, two pears and a bag of macadamia nuts. As she was folding the paper bag closed, Tad reappeared in the doorway, expressionless, holding the trousers. 

“Any luck?” she asked crisply.

“I can’t take a psycho child to Jack’s house. Jack’s wife is a control freak anyway, and naked-screaming-baby is a scandal I don’t need.” He was trying to sound decisive. 

“What do you propose to do?” Miss Astoreth sometimes appeared as cool as a snowbank, one whose depth and stability were impossible to judge without putting your weight on it.

“I - I’m gonna need you to stay here today. Another six hours.” He was trying to sound authoritative.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. I can’t miss the… thing. A lot of important partnerships and, you know, treaties are going to be discussed.”

Crowley held out her hand and twitched her fingers slightly. Tad sighed with relief and placed Warlock’s trousers in her waiting hand. Before he could withdraw, cool fingers clamped around his wrist. And, _oh_ , her hands were far larger and stronger than he had been prepared for.

“That’ll be eight full hours, sir.” Her voice was icy. “At overtime rates, of course.”

He would never admit it, but deep down, Tad was terrified by whatever lurked behind those glasses. He swallowed. “Sure. Why not?”

“Fine, then.” She let go, but he remained standing there, suddenly uncertain. “Better not miss your… _thing,_ Ambassador.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement than that and was out the door in moments. Crowley went to find her young charge.

Warlock was hiding in the laundry room. He had squeezed in between the washer and drier, beneath the bit of counterspace that was piled with folded clothes. She observed that he was no longer screaming for anyone else’s benefit. He was just crying, miserably to himself. Crowley knelt down to get a look at him.

“What’s wrong, little terror?”

“Is he gone?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “He left a moment ago. Is that ok?”

Warlock looked up into his Nanny’s face and managed, “Why doesn’t he like me?”

That question gave her pause. _Good question, kid. Been wondering something similar, myself, since before the beginning._ Out loud she said, “It’s not that he doesn’t like you… It’s just, he didn’t want to miss the ‘pre-game’.”

“But I’m his kid. And… that doesn’t make sense!” Warlock curled into a ball and buried his head in the crook of his arms, sniffling. 

“Ineffable,” she grumbled, under her breath. The boy didn’t appear to have heard that, but it gave her an idea. “Hey, you wanna go out in the garden and see Brother Francis?”

He peeked above his arms, and Crowley held up the trousers, temptingly. On sudden impulse, Warlock kicked at his Nanny, catching the offending clothing around one leg and flailing till the trousers were whipped from her hands.

“Impressive,” Crowley admitted.

“Too sad!” The boy said, despairingly.

“You’re too sad? Too sad for what, Hellspawn?” She was fairly certain that no one was ever too sad to see Brother Francis. The angel could cheer anybody up, even the damned.

“T- Too sad for pants!” 

Crowley smiled, considering, and then snapped her fingers.

* * *

Aziraphale placed a few more books into a sturdy canvas sack. On the rare occasion that he and Crowley had the day off together, they would usually swing by the shop and trade out some new-old reading material. Looking at the clock, Aziraphale sighed. He wouldn’t be surprised if they got off to a late start due to one of Warlock moods.

He had changed out of his gardening outfit (which Crowley referred to, rather rudely, as his potato sack) for better-tailored clothes. But since it was summer, and because Brother Francis was still just a hired groundskeeper, he had forgone his more ostentatious layers. He was wearing a simple button-down shirt with a faint blue stripe, perfectly serviceable for a day off. But then again… If Crowley took them somewhere nice for lunch… Aziraphale had gone back and forth about the waist coat, and if the demon kept him waiting much longer, he’d probably change his mind again before they headed out.

From the lawn outside, he heard a distinctive little hoot, followed by a few garbled but enthusiastic syllables. Had Warlock’s parents decided to let the child play outside, instead?

Aziraphale pulled the string to drop the blinds on the single window, before heading out to see what was delaying Crowley.

He saw Miss Astoreth immediately; she was leaning against a garden urn. In that moment, Aziraphale thought that the urn must have been made especially for the demon to lean against, and Aziraphale knew that he himself had planted it full of red and purple flowers, so that someday Crowley might be framed in this striking tableau. After a moment, the angel dismissed these wild fancies and strolled over to her. 

As he approached, Aziraphale followed her gaze across the lawn. Ah. Warlock. How had she gotten roped into watching him? And what on earth was he _wearing_?

Even from a distance, the boy was looking extremely colorful. He was spinning with his arms out, until he got dizzy and stumbled into a wobbly run. As he came closer, Aziraphale could make out the tutu and a very sparkly top. The boy looked like a rainbow. He waved at Brother Francis before throwing himself into a summersault which flattened his skirts. Then, he frolicked off in a different direction.

When Crowley noticed Aziraphale, she pushed her glasses tighter to her face. “Brother Francis,” she acknowledged, a little stiffly.

“My dear, what’s going on? I thought we-“

“Yeah, I know!” She blurted out. “I know, angel! But the kid’s father is such a fucking dick! And I know you were looking forward to going out. But, really, he was crying like his heart would break.”

“Tad?” Aziraphale asked, stunned.

“No. ‘Course not! Tad’s gonna go fuck a football or something. I mean Warlock. I’ve never seen him that upset.” Crowley shifted and then raised her chin defiantly. “So. Change of plans.”

They both regarded the boy as he twirled in his tutu. Each successive layer of ruffles was a different color of the rainbow. 

“He seems to be doing better now.” Aziraphale observed. Warlock was tugging at the purple skirt, pulling it out past the other layers. “But, if I may ask, what’s with…” Aziraphale gestured at the boy who was, apparently, so pleased with his tutu that he had to point his toe.

Crowley shrugged. “Too sad for pants.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Too. Sad. For. Pants.” She reiterated, as if that explained everything.

Aziraphale peered at the boy, obviously trying to get a glimpse under the tutu. “You mean to tell me, you let him out of the house without-“

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, angel! Pants, not _pants_.” The angel blinked, uncomprehending. “Get your mind out of the gutter, would you? He’s got knickers on, sure! But they’re American, you know, and the kid didn’t want to put on pants. Trousers. Whatever. And the poor kid couldn’t exactly wear what he wanted to his dad’s heteronormative pissing ritual. So, here we are.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale tried to keep the fondness out of his face and failed. “Wherever did you get that lovely outfit?”

“Same place we get everything, I guess.” Crowley made a snapping motion, without the sound. “I told him I’d been saving it for his birthday.”

“It’s a good thing they don’t monitor your miracles as closely as they do mine. I doubt his real father would be any more impressed than Tad would be to know you’re encouraging a future ballet dancer, here.”

Crowley scuffed her toe at a nonexistent rock. “Don’t fool yourself. The kid’s not into ballet.”

“He’s not?”

“Nah. He’s a rainbow unicorn. Can’t you tell?” For the first time in the conversation, Crowley’s affect softened; her lips quirked. 

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale squinted, nodding. “I see it now! Yes. Quite a good one, I’d say.”

“Maybe when Warlock remakes the world, he’ll put unicorns back in.” Crowley suggested, wistful.

“Well, at least that’ll be something to look forward to, before the... before the rest of it.” The thought made Aziraphale’s heart clinch. _No, not yet._ “And I bet unicorns will be much more brightly-colored, this time around.”

“Kid’s got good taste,” Crowley affirmed.

“Certainly.” Aziraphale folded his hands in front of himself. “He gets it from me, of course.”

Crowley scoffed loudly, and then seemed to sober. “I’m sorry about our day out, angel.”

“Never you mind about that! This,” he nodded in Warlock’s direction, “is better entertainment than any of the London play houses.

“I – I packed us a sack lunch.”

“Well, then what are you waiting for, Miss Astoreth?” Aziraphale nudged her shoulder with his. “Go and fetch it, for our little party.” The angel trotted out to join Warlock on the lawn, and then called back over his shoulder, “Bring something for unicorns to eat as well!”

Warlock barreled ecstatically into Brother Francis’s legs.

By the time Nanny returned with the snacks and a picnic blanket, the rainbow unicorn and the knight had been plotting how to take down a very ferocious black dragon. 

Tickling would be involved, and grass stains. 


	2. Chapter 2

The years went by, and when Warlock had no need for a Nanny any longer, Crowley smoothly transitioned into being his tutor. Tad still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t given Miss Astoreth the sack. He could have sworn that he had been about to fire her, numerous times. But she’d always given him _that look_. And, anyway, Miss Astoreth was the only one who seemed to have any rapport with the boy. Keeping her on as Warlock’s tutor was easier for the Dowlings than talking to their son. 

No one gave a second thought to Brother Francis. He stayed on because, well, he was just always there.

By the time he was ten, Warlock was trying his best to fit in. He found a new kind of protection in drab, colorless slacks, sports coats and t-shirts with corporate logos on them. When he had to spend time with his parents or out in the world, he adopted the persona of an annoyed pre-teen. From time to time though, his Nanny could still make him smile, by asking him if he was too sad for pants. 

Warlock spent a lot of time thinking about who he was supposed to grow up to be and wondering why people didn’t tell the truth. 

Like why Nanny and Brother Francis didn’t just tell him what they were grooming him for, exactly. Why didn’t Nanny come right out and tell his dad what a horrible father he was? Why didn’t he tell his mom that he hated literally all his clothes? And why didn’t Nanny and Francis just admit they loved each other?

Crowley guessed that the kid probably had questions which he knew better than to ask out loud. His Nanny certainly couldn’t blame him for that. Both his care givers noticed that Warlock was becoming increasingly harder to reach. It was to be expected, perhaps, with only a year left before he would descend the throne. 

Time was running out.

Aziraphale dealt with this creeping realization by forcing an increasingly brittle cheerfulness and nattering on incessantly to Warlock about ecology, interdependence and classical music. It barely held the boy’s attention anymore; he had so much else on his mind. 

Crowley, on the other hand, could give-out bored and annoyed in sufficient quantities to match even the most spoiled kid. The demon dealt with the coming end-of-days by not giving a shit. And by drinking, a lot.

Which was how Aziraphale stumbled upon him one night, slumped against a wall near the gardener’s shack. 

“Miss Astoreth!” the angel exclaimed. Crowley was slumped over, half-illuminated by the bare light bulb shining out from the cottage stoop. Peering down, Aziraphale noticed that the demon was wearing his rock-star clothes rather than his school-mistress ones. His glasses were missing. 

Crowley had had the day off. By mid-morning, Aziraphale had realized, with some regret, that the demon had disappeared off by himself, somewhere. Now, Aziraphale wondered whether he’d been moping right here, in this very spot, since he’d last seen him. 

“Hey, angel.”

“Hello, Crowley.” 

The demon took a drink from the bottle he was cradling, and Aziraphale sat down on the wall, beside his head. It took a concerted effort not to place a hand on the demon’s hair. 

Crowley craned his neck to look blearily up at him and offered the bottle. 

Aziraphale took a sip and hummed disapprovingly. “What a waste of the ’22.”

“Nah, ‘s not.” Crowley answered, looking out over the darkened estate. “Is perfectly good for reminiscing.”

“Reminiscing about what, pray tell?”

“The good ‘ol days.”

“Oh, Ireland, of course.” Silence. “Babylon, perhaps?”

“C’mon, angel! Don’t you get it? This is it. This ‘s them. Right now! An ’ll tell you something else. We had more than we're meant to. Got away with bloody murder, I’d say.”

Aziraphale considered this and gripped the rock wall on either side of his legs. “I do believe you’re right. We’ve had some fun on this lawn right here, haven’t we?”

Crowley brought his knees up to his chest and hid his face in his arms. 

The back of the demon’s neck was so near, so exposed. It would be easy to lay a comforting hand... Who would know? There was no one to hide from. (Well, except for God. All seeing, all knowing, but out of the office until further notice. Please leave a message at the beep.)

The stones were rough, and Aziraphale squeezed them tightly. 

“Come on inside, dear. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” There was no response. “I won’t have you sitting here by yourself thinking about the end of the world.”

“’M not,” he muttered. “Just, you know… family.” The words were muffled in his chest.

(Go ahead and leave a message, although I won’t be checking this voice mail at all. Ever.)

“It’s bloody unfair.” Aziraphale agreed.

“That an official complaint, angel?”

(If you need immediate assistance, feel free to call the main line, and someone will be there to smite you, shortly.)

“Come on,” Aziraphale insisted, warmly. “I’ve just been enjoying some lovely poetry. I’ll read it to you.”

“Eugh!” Crowley moaned. “Too sad!”

“What, the poetry? Oh, no I assure you, it’s not!”

“No. Me!” The demon looked up, and with a self-deprecating glint in his yellow eyes, declared, “Too sad for pants.”

Aziraphale brought his fingers to cover his sudden grin. “Oh, no!” he gasped in sympathy. “Too sad for pants? Really?” 

Crowley nodded, pathetically.

“Oh, my! That’s very sad. Why ever didn’t you say so?” Aziraphale stood and then grabbed Crowley, hoisting him up by his arm pits. “Up you get, demon!”

Once Crowley was on his feet, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the demon’s stylish clothes changed. Crowley looked down and found himself wearing a glittery, 1940’s gown. The capped sleeves and low-cut back were very flattering on his narrow frame, and below that were yards and yards of silk, falling to his ankles. The moonlight and the glow from the cottage door were enough to illuminate the swirling, shimmering rainbow colors. Aziraphale stood back and admired his work. 

Crowley twitched the fabric, and it moved deliciously around his legs. It appeared that the angel must have enjoyed Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, because of _course_ he did. “Well.” Crowley sounded grudgingly impressed. 

“Does it help?”

“It might.” Crowley admitted. “But, what am I? Going to a Pride parade?”

“Well, we _could_ ,” Aziraphale allowed. “I was going for rainbow unicorn, because he always seemed to like it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You mean the Adversary? 

“Destroyer of flower beds-”

“Angel of the Bottomless _Mood_ -”

“Prince of this family-“

“And Lord of Rainbow Sequins. Yeah, that’s the one. Well, I ‘aint him.” And with a click of his fingers, the dress become solid black with snaky embellishments in black sequins. Crowley was also, suddenly, a good deal more sober. The demon twirled speculatively, and the gown billowed in a perfect sinewave, as if it were made to do just that. 

“You’re right. That’s more your style, but-“ Aziraphale snapped a second time. “One does want a hint of color.” The hem of the gown had changed again into a ruff of red feathers that brushed the tops of Crowley’s feet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, angel! Are we gonna do me up, back and forth, like Sleeping Beauty all night?”

“What?”

Crowley waived the question away.

“Oh. ‘Pop’ culture.” Aziraphale said, knowingly. “Well, then. For the full effect. The full prescription, I mean. You could. Ah.” He was stammering. “Would you… care to dance?” Aziraphale was glad that he had his back to the cottage light, so it was probably too dark to see him blush.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, skeptically. “Looking like that?” he asked, and the angel’s heart sank. 

But then Crowley was snapping again, and Aziraphale’s potato sack and gardening hat disappeared, replaced by a white tuxedo and tails. The angel looked down at himself and smiled shyly. The rest of his disguise had vanished as well, and Aziraphale looked as lovely as the day they’d met.

They regarded each other, and there was no mistaking the feeling in that gaze. As they stood there, the air between them filled up with things unspoken. The jig was up. Wasn’t it? Who were they fooling anymore? No one. 

Crowley wanted to say something, anything. But how do you begin when you have a 6,000-year backlog and no time to start properly?

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and tilted his chin, willing his tears to stay put, not spill over, not make a mess. “I’m not good at this,” he said in a small voice.

“Yeah, we established that.” Crowley agreed, sounding more bitter than he’d meant to. Then, he softened and shrugged. “Me neither.”

“Never have been,” Aziraphale went on. “Not for… not, since the Gavotte.”

“Dancing. Y-Yeah.”

Crowley held out his hand, fingers dangling, palm down to match the dress. It’s not like there are a lot of possible reactions to that gesture, when one is wearing a white tux. Without thinking, ever a gentleman, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand on instinct. 

Aziraphale shuffled his feet, and then made a small, courtly bow. The demon curtsied. Centuries of practice had equipped Crowley with a curtsy that was both demure and tantalizing. 

“You’re just… oh, you! You’re…” Aziraphale sputtered.

Crowley smirked, “Your idea, angel. _Your_ slinky dress!” He lifted their joined hands, and leading with just the angle of his grip, encouraged Aziraphale to twirl under their raised arms. Then, Crowley did the same, and the skirt obliged. After spinning several times in a row, purely for the dress’s benefit, Aziraphale caught him and brought him to rest within the circle of his arms.

Crowley considered stopping time right there, but even at his best, he could have only bought them a couple of additional minutes. They needed years, centuries, a do-over. But time was a freight train, barreling indomitably toward the cliff-edge. Crowley wondered whether he could throw them both violently from the train, get themselves off the world. Maybe if they tucked and rolled, like in a Bond film… and then headed for the stars?

Picturing Fred Astaire, Aziraphale tried to place his hands in the right position. But that meant one hand would have to go on Crowley’s back? His hip? The momentary awkward repositioning, the drag of his fingers over the black fabric, left him shaken.

“I’m sorry. I thought... Crowley, didn’t we, um, have a rule about this?”

The demon glanced down at Aziraphale’s hand on his hip. “Eh?”

“No slow dancing?”

“Oh, yeah.” No problem. That was fine. It was complicated, and it was fine. 

So, Crowley did a quick recalculation (what would Warlock do?), stuck out his serpent-tongue and dashed away across the lawns. Aziraphale followed, giggling. 

They chased each other, and before Aziraphale could catch up, Crowley struck a pose and began dancing to bebop that only he could hear. There was no rule against _bad_ dancing, so Crowley played the Disco Queen, and Aziraphale minced around with that adorably fancy footwork he’d learned 140 years before. They laughed at each other. They spun some more. They collapsed, dizzy onto the grass. Then they even practiced their cartwheels, which was quite a trick in the dress, but looked really cool, once he got the hang of it.

-

Luckily, Heaven and Hell were, as always, blind to these shenanigans. But the little boy watching from an upstairs window, smiled down at his family and felt a little bit better about the fate of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Hopefully, this makes you feel a bit better about the fate of the world. Because why else are we hanging out here? A big thank you to [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose) for your inspiration and British-insight and for just being a beautiful person. You always make me laugh, even when we're both too sad for pants (or, alternately, sitting around in our pants!)  
> I also couldn't do any of this without my amazing wife [WanderingBard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3/pseuds/Wanderingbard3) who let me read this out loud again and again till I got it right, and gave me endless encouragement, every time! Thanks for always helping me find some hope!  
> Check out both of their works!
> 
> I treasure comments and always respond! It means a lot to me to connect with you all, so if you have a moment, please drop me a line and let me know what you thought!


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